


'cause forgiveness, is a nice thing to do

by onlypartly (foreverkneeld)



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: 2019 Stanley Cup Playoffs, Multi, Punishment, U know what that means, he's not gonna have it folks, new chapter cause i wasn't ready to let this go and neither was dima orlov, or sit for it, the caps LOSE and NICKLAS BACKSTROM will NOT STAND FOR IT
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-19
Updated: 2019-04-21
Packaged: 2020-01-16 15:18:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18524173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foreverkneeld/pseuds/onlypartly
Summary: “This was fucked up.” Backy says, the words bitten off. “You all know it. You know you can do better. Especially after we lost Oshbabe. He deserved to have us win for him.” He pauses, looking around slowly. On the other side of Burky, V’s head is dropped so low he looks like he’s about to eat the slush off his skates.Or, Nicklas Backstrom has Something To Say about last night.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> An offering to the hockey gods, that they may bless us. Thanks to the gc for their encouragement and to morgan especially for all the ingenious and creative ideas for punishment. (especially tom's)

Burky is biting his lip, gaze darting nervously between Tom and where Backy is ripping the tape off his stick with sharp, jerky motions. “Papa’s mad,” he whispers.

Tom doesn’t say ‘no shit’, because he’s an adult, and responsible now, and Burky looks genuinely nervous. He bumps into him purposely instead as he reaches down to unlace his own skates. “He’s not mad at you, Burt. You did good, eh? Good forechecking.”

“Not enough,” Burky mutters unhappily. He bends to undo his own skates and then jumps about a foot when the door to the locker room slams shut loudly.

Tom would chirp him for it if he hadn’t jumped too. It’s just Coach, come to yell at them now the media’s cleared out. It’s nothing they don’t deserve to hear - he knows they were slow out there, outskated and out-forechecked and backchecked and sloppy with passes  —  but it stings all the same. He keeps his expression intent and respectful as he listens, though, because Coach is just doing his job like they  _ weren’t _ , tonight. Or at least, he’s listening until Burky digs an elbow into his ribs. “Papa’s not listening,” he whispers.

Tom looks across the room, and not only is Backy not listening, neither is Ovi. They’ve got their heads together and Backy is hissing something, fast and angry sounding, with no trace of the thoughtful pauses usually there when he talks. Tom jerks his attention back to Coach just in time for Reirden to notice something is going on and turn to where Backy and O are turned into each other and obviously ignoring his lecture. His eyebrows go up. Not as good as Trotzy’s, but that’s pretty hard to do.

“Nick, Alex, something more interesting happening over there than what I’m saying?” He asks, pointed.

Ovi turns at once, looking a little shame-faced. “Sorry, coach.”

Backy shuts up, but his face is mutinous, and he doesn’t apologise.

Todd lets it go, finishing up with telling them he knows they can do better and that he wants to see it, before leaving them to finish stripping and hit the showers. 

As soon as he leaves, though, Backy stands up and gets Brooksie’s attention from his stall closest to the doors; tells him to lock them. Batya obeys, frowning a little.

The locker room, already subdued, quiets entirely, everyone’s attention on Backy. He’s standing in front of his stall, Ovi behind him, stripped to just his under armor and still dripping sweat. 

They all saw Backy break his stick on the way down. All of them know he’s mad. Judging by the number of bowed heads, most of them know they deserve it. Brooksie is still frowning, and Hags is looking startled and uncertain. Tom wonders what they used to do in Pittsburgh when they fucked up. Judging by how startled he’d been the first time they lost and Ovi still told him he’d done a good job, probably nothing good.

“This was fucked up.” Backy says, the words bitten off. “You all know it. You know you can do better.  _ Especially _ after we lost Oshbabe. He deserved to have us win for him.” He pauses, looking around slowly. On the other side of Burky, V’s head is dropped so low he looks like he’s about to eat the slush off his skates. 

“But it’s not fair to hand out the same punishment to everyone. I know the ice was bad. I know the crowd was loud. But that is no excuse for the way we played tonight.”

Tom feels a sick lurch in his stomach. He knows he wasn’t playing his best, and he doesn’t usually feel the need to blame the other team or the ice or the fans, but. He can’t deny some of him was feeling a bit of an injured sense of injustice at how  _ bad _ it was and how no one was ever where he needed them to be. But Backy’s right. There isn’t an excuse.  _ He _ doesn’t have an excuse.

“Djoos, Stevo, you’re with Osh. I cleared it with Steve and Rich  — anything he needs, you get.”

They nod, ducking out as fast as they can. They’re holding hands, which Tom would definitely find cuter if he didn’t feel sick to his stomach. They  _ should _ have been better. Fuck. He could’ve scored  — should’ve done  _ something _ to have to show when Oshbabe comes back instead of fuck-all.

“Boyd.” Nicky says, and Boyd’s head jerks up, eyes wide and nervous. “Ten minutes on the ice, yeah? Crunches, push ups, stretches. Ten minutes of each before you shower. Go. Dowd, same for you.”

Both men immediately leave off getting out of the rest of their gear, moving to obey with their pants and socks still on.

“Hags.” Nicky’s tone isn’t harsh, exactly, but it’s firm, and Tom can see Hags’ hard swallow as he stands, waiting. “Go shower. Cold water only, and no suit. Borrow some sweats.”

Hags’ eyebrows draw together, confused, but he’s no less quick to obey, stripping out of the rest of his gear with brisk efficiency and heading for the showers. Tom tries not to snicker at his longing glance back at his neatly hung Calvin Klein suit.

Backy glances around the room and Tom can hear Burky’s breath catch audibly in his throat before Backy says, “Jonas, by me.”

Tom feels himself tense, because he’s one thing  —  even Burky or V or anyone who’s been up for a while is one thing, but Siegs has only been up for one game, it’s not his fault, anything that happened, and if Nicky goes too far  —

Nicky puts a hand firmly on Jonas’ shoulder and pushes down until he’s kneeling by his feet. He sets a hand in his hair and leans over, murmuring something Tom can’t hear but that causes a low flush to cover Siegs’ face before he bows his head again. Nicky strokes the hair that’s just starting to curl over the base of his neck again before he looks straight at Tom like he knows exactly what he was just thinking.

If Backy’s going by ice time it’s V or Burky next, Tom knows, but instead Backy just says, cool, “Can’t clean up on the ice, Willy? Maybe you can help out in here, instead, since the equip guys can’t get in.” He nods to the discarded jerseys and towels. “Laundry. And you ask for it. Don’t forget Osh’s.”

Tom burns, feeling frustrated humiliation in every inch of his body, but he obeys, getting up stiffly, taking the outstretched jersey Nicky’s holding out to him and bundling it into his hand with his head ducked. He shuffles to Holts first, mumbling a “Do you have any  — ” as behind him he hears Nicky say, “V,” and Burky’s anxious intake of breath. 

Tom stops in the middle of his request, unable to keep himself from looking. V had a penalty in the first minute. If Tom gets this just for not producing, what kind of humiliation does Nicky have in store for  _ that _ ?

Backy holds out an arm and V goes over, clearly already on the verge of tears. Ovi steps forward at Backy’s gesture and gathers both of V’s wrists in one hand, offering his other arm for Jakub to brace against. “Fourteen minutes of ice time, two minute penalty.” Backy says, not unkindly. “Fourteen smacks and two minutes sitting before you go shower.”

Jakub nods, holding on tightly to Ovi’s arm as Nicky smooths a hand over the spandex covering his ass. The swats are firm but definitely not as hard as Nicky can hit, as Tom has plenty of reason to know. Even with the restraint V is crying hard before Nicky even hits number eight, tears dripping off his cheeks and onto O’s arm. He looks better when they’re over, though, sitting down in Ovi’s stall with barely a wince. Nicky pets over his hair once before he glances over at Tom. 

Stung, Tom hurriedly turns back to Holts. “Do you have any laundry I can take for you?” 

Holts silently hands him a sweaty bundle and Tom nods his head in awkward thanks before moving to Nisky and repeating the question. He can’t help but be relieved that when Nicky says Andre’s name, it’s tinged with the same exasperated affection as always. He’s sent straight to shower, and Tom can’t help but relax a little in relief.

Conno and Brooksie both get assigned to stand face away in the corner, still in most of their gear, for fifteen minutes before they’re allowed to shower. Kuzy  —  Tom winces  —  Kuzy gets put face down on the nasty-ass carpet in the middle of the room, and Nicky unceremoniously drops two full equipment bags on top of him. “Twenty minutes,” he’s told, almost offhand, and Nicky’s turning to Jensen and Nisky. He tosses Jensen a bottle of ointment. “Nisky blocked a few shots. Take care of him and then you can shower.”

Jensen looks confused by the reprieve but happy to obey, tugging Nisky down onto the bench in the middle of the room and starting to strip him down. Nisky looks like he’s about to melt from embarrassment, which  —  was probably Backy’s plan in the first place.

Tom has most of the jerseys and underarmor from all the guys left in the room. He’s taking the bundle Lars is handing him silently when Burky comes out from the showers, going at once to Nicky and waiting silently. 

“Suit and tie,” Nicky tells him, “And then kneel with Siegs.” 

Burky nods, taking his life in his hands by leaning in for a quick hug before he darts away to obey. Tom hears an audible snort from Kuzy, still on the carpet under the equipment backs, and Backy’s eyebrows go up before he beckons to Tiger, waiting uncertainly in his briefs and nothing else. “Kuzma needs a little more to carry, I think,” he says, and takes the bags off and gestures Lars down onto Kuzy’s back. “Kuzy, ten pushups and you can go shower.” Lars immediately flushes a dull red all over as Nicky turns away in obvious dismissal, but he doesn’t move as Kuzy starts a slow push up under an additional 200 odd pounds of Dane.

The the two left of the D-core  —  Orly and Carly  —  Backy whispers something that Tom can’t catch, but they go at once to where Holts is still in his gear and start to take it off of him. Followed by his briefs. 

Ovi says something, clearly a question, and Tom wanders close enough picking up a towel that he hears “  —  take it very slow.”

This leaves just Ovi. And Nicky himself. Tom has seen too many of these room-wide punishments happen to believe Backy would leave himself out of it. Backy looks at Ovi, and Ovi’s eyes drop before he kneels in front of Backy, his proper, upright posture at odds with the awkward sprawl of Burky and Jonas.

“Over twenty minutes,” Nicky says, sounding thoughtful. “A long time to be on the ice with only one goal.”

Ovi swallows hard. 

“But you did get a goal, which was more than anyone else. And I’m on the ice with you for almost all that, so it’s more my fault, yeah?”

Ovi’s eyes come up at that, and Tom can see the visible protest on his face before Nicky covers his mouth with a hand. The rest of the guys have come out of the showers by now and filed silently back into their stalls. The couple that haven’t yet gone in are waiting, clearly sensing something in the atmosphere. Orly and Carly have stopped, Carly’s hand on Holt’s dick and Orly behind him doing Tom doesn’t want to know what.

Nicky reaches into his stall and pulls something out. With a start, Tom realises it’s the stick he broke earlier, in the hallway. 

He hands the lower half to Ovi.

For a breathless, horrified moment, Tom thinks he’s asking to be hit with it. Spankings are one thing - even a _belt_ , but this is —  this is a _club_ , surely they’re not —  they still have to _play_ —

“Backy  — ” Ovi says, clearly the beginnings of an argument. “Nicke  — ”

“I fucked up too,” Backy says, firm, and the thin set of his mouth is obstinate. Not that Tom would ever be crazy enough to argue with him anyway, but especially not when he looks like that. “You think it’s fair for me to punish everyone else and get off free? Come on, Alex.”

Ovi’s face sets stubbornly. “Like you say. We both on ice. I get half.”

“Absolutely not. You could  — ”

“Half, or I don’t do,” Ovi interrupts.

“Fine.” Nicky says, through gritted teeth, and turns to face his stall. Tom drags in a sharp breath, wondering if he should  —  does he need to get someone? A trainer? Coach? But Ovi isn’t pulling back to hit. He’s laying the broken stick in between Nicky’s elbows, bent and tensed behind his back, and wrapping stick tape around it to keep it in place. Dangling below the broken stick, Nicky’s hands grip each other restlessly. Ovi squeezes them, once, before he steps back. The hits, when they come, are sharp and fast. Nicky’s still in his underarmor, but Tom can’t help picturing the slow flush of red that must be blooming underneath them. Nicky’s so pale  —  every time Ovi’s hand cracks on his ass it must leave a visible imprint. 

If either of them are counting, they’re not doing it out loud, but it’s gotta be over twenty strokes. Fuck, was Nicky going to take all of his and Ovi’s? A hit for every minute on the ice without a goal? Over  _ forty _ swats, and with the way Alex hits, that’s no joke. He would’ve been still sore for Saturday’s game.

Nicky is dry-eyed still when Ovi finishes and steps back, shaking out his hand, but there’s a sheen over his eyes that makes Tom look away, like he shouldn’t be seeing this. He hears rather than sees Ovi pull Nicky in, sees them touch foreheads out of the corner of his eye, Nicky’s eyes closed and Ovi murmuring something too low for them to hear. Nicky says something back, sharp, but it makes Ovi grin and lean in, kissing Nicky’s mouth just quickly before pulling away again and unbinding the tape.

Backy flexes his hands a couple times and then, satisfied, gestures Ovi into his place. He doesn’t bother with rope or tape  —  just folds Ovi’s arms up behind his back and keeps them there while he measures out exactly twenty swats. He leans forward before he releases O’s arms, whispering something into the sweaty nape of his neck before he smooths a hand down the long back and straightens, turning to face the room.

“Okay.” He looks around, making eye contact with them all. “It’s done. Next time, we do better, ja?”

Everyone nods, and V says, “Yes, Backy.” 

Tom, with the game sweat long since gone clammy, gives him a smile. He needs to do better about checking in with Jakub; making sure he’s in a good head-space before games. He knows he’s been missing Mads. Maybe he should have him over  —  him and Burky and Djoos. Maybe Jonas if he stays up. Spend some time bonding. 

“Okay.” Nicky smiles, brief. “Alex?”

“You hear what Backy says.” Ovi says, serious, for him. “Next time, we do better. None of us want to lose. And none of us want Backy to make me punish him so hard he can’t sit. Gotta be better for each other, okay?”

There’s a bigger cheer at that, and Tom grins. It’s a good team. They’re a good room. Some day he’s going to figure out how the two of them do it so effortlessly  —  hand out different punishments at different levels for everyone without anyone getting mad or jealous. He suspects a lot of it has to do with how obviously Ovi defers to Backy for things like this, and how fair Backy is about it, but some of it has to be able to be learned. He’s going to try, at least. Maybe tomorrow he can  — swing by or something. Just to ask some questions. 


	2. this is why we cant have nice things

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> why is this from dima's pov??? absolutely no idea go ask him (do not do this. absolutely never do this never tell them fic about them exists. keep the fourth wall thick friends.)

Dima is not having a good time here. Which, like, he doesn’t exactly think any of them are. Poor Andre and little V are about to shit their pants and Nicky isn’t even doing anything that harsh to them. And, frankly, it’s not like they don’t deserve every bit of what he’s handing out and more.

Absolutely more, in his case. He was on the ice for just as long as Nicky. Almost as long as Sasha. And he’s the only one on that was on ice for both goals, but all Nicky does is tell him and Carly off to bring Braden off as slowly as they can manage. It’s not exactly a hardship (ha, Dima thinks to himself, because come _on_ ), and there is a kind of slow torture in wanting to give Holts something good and not being allowed to do it. He deserves good things, even if they didn’t entirely shit the ice in front of him the way they had last game. Braden doesn’t make a sound when he finally comes half on Dima’s hand and half on Carly’s face; the only indication on his face that he’s come at all is his eyes fluttering briefly behind those absurd eyelashes.

Life just isn’t fair sometimes. Speaking of which, despite his own raging erection, which he doesn’t have permission to take care of, he glances over at Nicky. The speech was good, both his and Sasha’s, and Carly and Nisky have already left for the plane, Carly looking tired but settled. The new kid is fine - he knows neither Nicky nor Sasha would risk hurting him, and the enforced quiet and kneeling was probably good for him. But Dima himself still feels that unsettled itch that tells him his own personal sense of justice hasn’t been met.

A little bit of unresolved arousal is so commonplace it doesn’t even rank, as punishments go. He checks on Kuzma, finding him sullen but thoughtful, which is normal after any punishment, before he sidles up to Sasha. Sasha glances at him and then down at the tent in his pants. Dima rolls his eyes. “I wanna come over when we get home,” he says, because this isn’t about permission to get off. “I need more.”

Sasha frowns. “Nicky -”

“There were a lot of us,” Dima says, because he gets it. A whole locker room, and a lot of people that need it more than Dima does, and need it right away. “It’s fine, but. I need more, okay? For me.”

Sasha glances back at Nicky, talking to Andre, and then nods. “Okay. When we get home.”

_____

Sasha and Nicky’s house is big and full of dogs. Dima is used to them, and to the way Sasha puts himself between them and Nicky, letting him slip past into the living room until they’ve calmed down more.

Dima follows him after a cursory hello to the dogs, hands in his pockets and still with that unsettled feeling in his gut. Sasha is still in the kitchen, baby talking to the dogs as he gets their dinners ready.

Nicky sits down on the couch and then winces. Dima winces in sympathy. Nicky took a lot of punishment tonight too, both in the game and after it. He hesitates, and then goes to his knees. He’s not there very often - definitely not as much as Andre, or Osh when he’s not injured (and fuck that was a dirty hit), and not even as much as Stevo or Jensen, and he more often is taking care of Zhenya, anyway. Today, though, he wants the clean slate feeling that Nicky can give him.

“Sasha says you need more,” Nicky says, on hand going to the back of Dima’s neck and resting there, heavily. “Why?”

“I have lots time on ice,” Dima says, blunt, “More than you. And two goals against. For Carly, he does good most of time so for him few hours of hard on enough.”

“Okay.” Nicky is frowning when Dima glances up, but it’s thoughtful, not upset. “Do you want to choose or do you want me to pick?”

Dima opens his mouth to say Nicky picks, but then he hesitates. The guilt he’d felt watching Nicky take so many hits was one the rest of the room had shared, he’s pretty sure. And something about the simplicity of taking a corporal punishment, bearing the physical marks of his failure and letting the guilt fade with the sting of it. “Paddle,” he says instead, firm.

Nicky nods and stands up, gesturing Dima up after him. “Bedroom, I think.”

Sasha comes in, sans dogs, and glances at him. “You want me? Or no?”

Dima looks to Nicky, who raises an eyebrow. His choice, then. “Sasha can come.”

“ _Can_ he come?” Sasha asks, smirking. Nicky shoots him a look and Dima smiles, despite the churning still in his stomach. If Sasha’s ass weren’t already red there would for sure be more swats in his near future.

“Not if you keep that up,” Nicky mutters, and closes a hand hard over the back of Sasha’s neck to guide him to the bedroom.

They have a trunk at the foot of the bed - various kinds of implements, for pain and for pleasure, and a lot of really nice ropes and cuffs. Nicky doesn’t reach for any of them besides the solid paddle, ignoring all the bondage on offer.

“Not going to tie me down?” Dima asks, stripping out of his sweatpants and shirt.

Nicky looks unimpressed, which. Is how he usually looks. His hair is so long now - it looks like it did when Dima first came to the Caps, except he doesn’t straighten it anymore. The curls are soft, post shower, still a little damp, and for a second, looking at his thin mouth and heavy shoulders and those soft, skillful hands, Dima can understand very easily why Sasha’s been in love with him for over a decade.

“If you can’t hold still I’ll have Sasha sit on you.” Nicky rolls up his sleeves and nods to the end of the bed. “Hands and knees.”

Sasha settles himself at the head of the bed, naked already and decidedly not ashamed, one hand on his cock. He’s not jerking off but he certainly is ready to go whenever Nicky decides to let him.

Dima climbs onto the bed, face towards Sasha, and braces himself. Nicky doesn’t bother with a warm up. The first blow drives Dima forward almost a foot, and he grunts with the impact. He takes the second Nicky gives him to reset and gratefully takes hold of the shins Sasha nudges forward for him to grip onto.

Nicky lands two, three, four, five more in quick succession and then pauses. “Dima?”

“Good.” Dima grits out. It hurts, yeah, but he’s not - he doesn’t get the floating feeling from this that some of the boys describe, but. The pain is good. It’s grounding, and it’s cleansing, and it’s not enough.

“Okay. Ten more, and then we move on.”

Dima nods; braces again. He’s wet-eyed by the time Nicky finally drops the paddle back into the box. His ass feels like it’s on fire, and Sasha’s shins are probably going to have a couple bruises, but he feels good. His stomach is easy, and the warmth from his ass, as stupid as it sounds even in his own head, has spread to his chest and stomach, slowing his breathing and draining the tension from his shoulders.

Nicky’s hand strokes down his spine. “Good, Dima. You took that so well for me, for us. I’m going to get the cream, yeah? Sasha’s going to take care of you now.”

Dima mumbles something that’s probably assent and lets himself drop to his stomach. Above him, Sasha chuckles.

“I’m guessing you don’t want me to eat you out.”

Dima just groans. The thought of Sasha’s playoff beard against his abraded ass sounds like more punishment than the one he just took.

Sasha laughs again. “Okay. You want a blowjob or just a hand?”

“Too tired to decide,” Dima manages, muffled. His eyes are so heavy. He’s probably going to fall asleep before he even comes, at this rate. Except then he jerks up at a cold touch on his ass, and Nicky presses down at the base of his spine to keep him down.

“Sorry, sorry,” he says, “I know it’s cold.”

“‘s okay.” Dima pushes himself up onto his elbows. “Sasha promise me blowjob.”

“You say you too tired to decide.” Sasha moves, though, ignoring his own hard cock and rotating himself so his head is underneath Dima’s body and wrapping a hand around him. “But I suck you off anyway because I’m so nice.”

“Shut up and put my dick in you mouth,” Dima grumbles.

Sasha grins, which isn’t comforting from a mouth about to be around his dick, but he gets to it with the same enthusiasm he brings to almost everything, and it’s a welcome distraction from the renewed burning as Nicky works the cream into his reddened skin.

“You need me do for you?” He asks, as Nicky finishes and turns to put the tube away. Nicky shakes his head.

“Sasha took care of it.” Nicky pats his thigh in thanks, and Dima ducks his head, as much to hide his groan as in acknowledgement. Sasha’s mouth is hot and wet and feels _so. good._ They’ve all been so busy and stressed none of them have really had the time for anything drawn own - and not that this is especially slow, considering he’s fairly sure he’s going to blow in a minute flat, but compared to what he’s gotten the last week, it’s pretty close to paradise. Behind him, Nicke leans over and bites open mouthed at the juncture of his shoulder and his neck at the exact time that Sasha presses the flat of his tongue to just under the head of his dick and he moans helplessly and comes. Sasha helpfully licks him clean before squirming back to put his head on the pillow and look at Nicky with what can only be described as come-hither eyes.

Nicky rolls his own eyes but moves over to him. “I’m not sitting on your dick,” he informs him flatly.

“Maybe I get best, most beautiful mouth?” Sasha says coaxingly.

“You get a hand or nothing. I want to go to sleep and I don’t need a sore throat on top of a sore ass tomorrow.”

“Okay, yes, good.” Sasha wriggles happily against the pillows and opens his thighs invitingly.

Dima shifts, shoving Sasha over enough so he can crawl under the covers. There’s no way he’s going home tonight. They can jerk each other off over top of him if they want.

Except, gross, apparently for them handjobs include slow, drugging kisses and Sasha whimpering into Nicky’s mouth as Nicky murmurs things Dima is glad he’s unable to hear. He dimly hears the bitten off cry as Sasha comes and the sharp huff of air as Nicky follows him. They pull him out of his dazed drowse as they pull the covers all the way back and climb underneath them and he grumbles, rolling closer to Sasha.

Sasha puts an arm around his waist, careful to avoid his ass, and tugs him even closer, kissing his forehead. “You did good out there,” he says, quietly, “And Saturday, we’ll do better, okay? It’s done. It’s in the past.”

“In the past,” Dima mumbles, turning his head blindly as Nicky clicks the lights off to drop a kiss just shy of Sasha’s mouth. “Now let me sleep. My ass hurts like a motherfucker.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> hail the washington capitals, hail yourselves, hail hockey gods. also if u dont know what im talking about at the beginning -
>
>> HMMMMMMMM well , <https://t.co/gXZWXkOO3r>
>> 
>> — i want to be at home with my cat (@foreverkneeld) [April 19, 2019](https://twitter.com/foreverkneeld/status/1119315864543690754?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw)


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